


Squeaking Through The Five-Hole

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Broning, Closet Sex, Clothed Sex, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not sure if saying I'm better than Fleury and Bryzgalov right now is much of a compliment, but thanks. Jesus, way to scare me being all serious and shit. I wasn't sure if this was a sneak attack or a booty call."</p>
<p>"No," says Mike hastily. "I wouldn't... that wouldn't be, uh, I mean, I don't even... yeah, I just wanted to say that. So."</p>
<p>Crawford raises his eyebrows. There's a long silence while Mike tries to think of a way to exit the conversation gracefully, then Crawford says, "That door locked?"</p>
<p>Mike checks it. "No."</p>
<p>"You wanna?"</p>
<p>"<i>Yes,</i>" says Mike, and drags Crawford into the closet by the front of his shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squeaking Through The Five-Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juliandarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliandarling/gifts), [deerang2002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerang2002/gifts), [Verbyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/gifts).



> Yeah, this is set right after the game that just ended. I basically wrote it in real time. Unbetaed, not even re-read, I just pounded this out and posted it, so be aware that it's not polished or anything. I'm sure security on these guys is way too tight right now for this scenario to be feasible. Also, I don't know what the post-game schedules look like as far as media appearances or whatever. If Smith or Crawford were spotted giving interviews in suits ten minutes after the game or something, uh, call it an AU?
> 
> Title inspired by this quote from Corey Crawford: "When I'm down sometimes I'll flare out instead of having my knees together and that makes me a lot wider. If the guy has a hard shot it can squeak through the five-hole, but it's just something for the shooters."

Doaner's wallowing in a puddle of emo about his failure to score on the penalty kill, because obviously it's his responsibility to win them the game while they're shorthanded. The rest of the team is just as glum. Mike is feeling pretty chill, though. Of course it would have been great if they'd taken the series tonight, but the odds are still in their favor, and they're doing well. Freaking out isn't going to stop any pucks, and it isn't going to score any goals either, not that he's about to try telling Doaner that.

After Tippett holds court for a while and everyone gets out of their sweaty gear and into the showers, Mike throws on some jeans and slips away. He's not supposed to, even though this is their home turf and no one who finds him is going to stone him or anything. During the playoffs, he's barely allowed to go grocery shopping. But tonight, there's someone he needs to find.

Patrick Sharp is leaning against the wall outside the visiting team locker room, doing something with his phone. He looks up when he hears Mike approaching, and his eyebrows keep right on going up when he sees who it is.

"Hi," says Mike, about as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances. "Could you ask Crawford to come out for a minute?"

He thinks Sharp is going to refuse, but after a moment of blinking, he sticks his head into the room and calls, "Hey, Crow!"

Crawford appears in the doorway, pulling a white undershirt over his head. "Yeah?" he says, and then his head pops out through the neck hole and he sees Mike.

"Can I talk to you?" asks Mike.

"Uh," says Crawford, evidently trying to determine the likelihood of Mike dragging him into a dark corner and beating him to a pulp. "Okay."

Mike leads him around a corner to an alcove with a water fountain and an equipment closet, just far enough away that Sharp won't overhear. Not that it would really matter, but he'd rather not involve the rest of the team that just beat him. This isn't about them.

"I just wanted to let you know that I thought you played a good game tonight," he says. "I've been watching the Pens/Flyers series, and... I mean, I want to win, but I don't ever want to play a game that looks like that. So I appreciate that you're, y'know, a worthy opponent."

Crawford grins a little. "I'm not sure if saying I'm better than Fleury and Bryzgalov right now is much of a compliment, but thanks. Jesus, way to scare me being all serious and shit. I wasn't sure if this was a sneak attack or a booty call."

"No," says Mike hastily. "I wouldn't... that wouldn't be, uh, I mean, I don't even... yeah, I just wanted to say that. So."

Crawford raises his eyebrows. There's a long silence while Mike tries to think of a way to exit the conversation gracefully, then Crawford says, "That door locked?"

Mike checks it. "No."

"You wanna?"

" _Yes,_ " says Mike, and drags Crawford into the closet by the front of his shirt.

It's pitch-black and cramped and warm inside. Crawford kisses him like they're playing against each other and someone has to win. Mike tries to give back as good as he gets while simultaneously groping for the door handle to make sure it's closed all the way behind them.

There's shelving down one side of the closet and barely enough room for the two of them to stand between the shelves and the opposite wall. One of the shelves is digging into Mike's ass. He shoves Crawford against the wall, pressing him back with hands on his shoulders and hips grinding together. Crawford lifts his leg up to brace against a shelf, then lifts his other leg up too, bracketing Mike's thighs with his. Mike leans into him, hiking him up a little, until he's supporting more of Crawford's weight than the shelves are.

He bites Crawford's neck, and Crawford tilts his head back and his thighs wider, opening up his throat and his legs for Mike. If they were playing to win, Mike has come out on top, which he thinks is only fair considering how the rest of the evening turned out.

He slides his hands down Crawford's sides and under his ass, helping to hold him up and getting a nice double handful in the process. Crawford spreads his legs impossibly wide, and the image of him dropping into side-splits in front of the goal flashes through Mike's head.

"If I had any slick I'd make you fuck me into this wall right fucking now," says Crawford in a gritty whisper, and no one will ever be able to prove Mike just made that noise. He presses his dick into the crack of Crawford's ass--what is he wearing, basketball shorts?--and Crawford somehow clenches his ass around it. God, Mike really fucking wishes they had lube, because there is absolutely nothing he wants more in the world right now than to bury his cock in that ass as far as it will fucking go.

Crawford starts humping Mike's abs, rubbing his ass on Mike's dick, and it's uncomfortable and rough and _perfect._ Mike isn't going to be able to hold him up much longer, but that's okay, because this isn't going to take much longer either. He bites Crawford's neck again, because he seemed to like that, and Crawford says, " _Fuck_ ," and worms a hand between them to jerk himself off. His other arm is wrapped around the back of Mike's neck, and they're pressed together hot and sweaty, hard dicks and firm muscles dragging against each other, both hurried and desperate.

Crawford comes first, slippery wet between them, and squeezes his ass tight enough around Mike's dick to bring him along in his wake. Mike's legs give out, and they both crash to the floor, panting.

Their breathing takes a long time to slow. Eventually, Crawford says, "I really hope I can get back into the shower without any of the guys seeing me."

"You'd better get going," says Mike. "Sharp's probably filed a missing persons report by now."

They disentangle themselves and sort out the mess as much as possible, which isn't very much. As Mike is reaching for the door handle, Crawford says, "Hey, Smith."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you too," he says. Mike opens the door, and the light falls on Crawford's face right as he smiles.


End file.
